


you know, a confession

by wendysheep



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Jealousy, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, atsumu is petty, crack treated seriously (kinda), near the end tho, suna and atsumu are actually best friends in denial, sunas trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27425710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendysheep/pseuds/wendysheep
Summary: Suna's current concern: reject the letter, but also don't.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Suna Rintarou, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 20
Kudos: 128
Collections: SunaOsa





	you know, a confession

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever fanfic! Ever! I intended it to be super light hearted but it got kinda angsty as I continued oops. Writing any scene with Atsumu and Suna was the most fun ever. I hope you guys enjoy:)

Suna finally gives in and turns around after the sixth time he feels something hit the back of his head.

It was bits of an old eraser. He sees another piece already ripped off, playing between Atsumu’s fingers, ready for Suna in case he continued to ignore him.

“What.”

“Gimme yer pen,” Atsumu whispers in his outdoor voice.

“Use your own.”

“Out of ink. Give,” Atsumu holds out his hand expectantly.

Suna looks back at his own, one splayed out on the desk with half of his fingernails black, and the other holding the pen that was making those fingernails black. He sighs. Less ink meant it would be easier to eventually wash off. 

He gives the pen to Atsumu, who plucks it out of his hands and pops off the cap, leaving it to roll off his desk somewhere. Suna will have to be the one to pick it up.

“What’re you doing?” Suna asks as Atsumu starts scribbling something on his page. It was almost empty, save the single sentence that he had started writing at the top of his page (how such a precise setter failed to coordinate his handwriting, Suna will never understand) but even that was left unfinished.

“Mind yer own business, before sensei tells us off—“

“Suna-kun! Unless you’re happy to share your answers with the rest of us, stop talking!”

Atsumu grins and hunches over his notebook while Suna scowls, whipping back around in his seat and staring at the blotted ink around his fingertips. Atsumu might have nothing on his page, but Suna wasn’t even paying attention to what he was writing, and no answer was always better than the wrong answer.

They don’t talk again until the end of class, when Suna spins around in his seat at the sound of the bell and looks pointedly at Atsumu. The teacher hasn’t even finished talking yet.

“Give back my pen.”

“Relax. Here, I’m done anyway,” Atsumu says, handing back the pen — no cap, as expected.

“What’d you do?” Suna asks once the teacher dismisses them, craning his neck to see what Atsumu wrote on his page.

Atsumu grins, lifts his paper upright, and presents it to Suna proudly. On a new page, in small, relatively dainty handwriting, was a love letter. At the top, _Dear Osamu_. Suna wrinkles his nose. The fuck is this?

“I knew you were a freak, but confessing to your own brother is pushing it, even for you,” Suna rereads the middle sentence again. ‘ _I love how incredibly easy your brother makes it for you to hit the ball and score the team a point.’_

“Idiot, I’m not writing for me,” Atsumu snaps, but he’s quickly excited when his eyes catch the notebook again. “He’s not gonna know it’s from me. It’s a fake confession.”

“What’re you writing a fake confession for?” Suna asks, only mildly interested because it involves the preferred twin. 

“Do I need a reason?” Atsumu snorts. “He measured a little taller than me and now he thinks he's big. I'll break his heart, though, I’m convincing.”

Suna snatches the notebook from his hand, ignoring Atsumu’s short yelp as he reads it once more. 

It’s not convincing, unless most girls confess to their crushes by talking about their lack of body hair and how interested they were in getting to know their brother as well. And how attractive said brother was. And how good at sports, and flirting, and generally existing — this might as well have been Atsumu’s confession to himself.

“This sucks. He’ll know it’s you straight away,” Suna pushes the notebook back into Atsumu’s hands, ducking to the ground to pick up the pen cap. 

“Yer only saying that cuz you know I wrote it!”

“I’d know either way, your vocabulary is equivalent to that of a ten year old’s.”

Atsumu smacks the notebook onto Suna’s chest, hard enough for Suna to huff.

“You write it then, if yer so smart.”

Suna pushes the notebook back, grimacing.

“I’m not gonna write a confession to Osamu,” the idea alone tinged the tips of Suna’s ears. It’s awkward, that’s why. 

Besides, he wouldn’t know what to write. How would he even start? Talking about how it feels when he enters the room? Or how hot he looks when he does that lazy grin after he makes a funny joke at the lunch table that causes everyone else to double over? What? No, seriously, _what_?

“Actually,” Atsumu’s tone changes, he’s contemplating. Thinking. Never a good sign outside of the court. His eyes suddenly widen and his mouth follows suit. “Good idea! Suna, you have to write it!”

“Wha—stop—why would—dude, get off me,” Suna’s trying to shake off Atsumu’s hands from his shoulders and thinking about Osamu’s strong legs and the muscles that flex as he’s doing a run up to spike. He shakes his head. There’s no way he can write it. For his sake.

“Yer Osamu’s best friend, you know what he likes, he tells ya all that shit,” Atsumu asks, and it was no surprise that there’s a shadow of bitterness to his voice. Suna doesn’t care, he learned to overlook it many years ago when his friendship with Osamu was first established.

“That has nothing to do with it.”

Suna slides one strap of his bag over his shoulder and starts making his way out of the already empty classroom. Atsumu, unfortunately, shoves everything from his table into his own bag and rushes next to Suna.

“It’s got _everything_ to do with it. You can make the letter interesting for him. He’ll fall in love with you, and then you’ll tell him _actually, I love Atsumu. Also I’m a boy_ ,” Atsumu said monotonously, a bad effort at an impression of Suna. Suna glares at Atsumu, but he continues. “Actually the boy part doesn’t matter, just make sure he knows you’re in love with me instead, or that you got us confused and you wrote the confession to the wrong one. And say that he doesn’t look as cool as he thinks he does when he’s spiking—”

“Okay, I get it,” Suna bites.

“So you’ll write it?”

“I never said that.”

“Yer boring as shit, Rin.”

“Yeah, I am,” Suna says offhandedly, scouring the corridor before the lunch hall to find the rest of his teammates.

“C’mon! You never do anything for me!” Atsumu whines in his ear, and it takes everything Suna has to not trip him over right now.

“Why would I?” _Ever do anything for you?_

“Cuz,” Atsumu’s voice drops, as if sharing a dirty little secret. “Samu told me you like boys,” he says and smirks, like Suna should be reacting or something.

“Okay,” Suna blinked, “and?”

“Whad’ya mean _and_ ? _And_ he told _me_ yer secret. Me, Rin! Aren’t ya fuming? Don’t ya wanna get him back?”

“The whole team and their mothers know, Atsumu. It wasn’t a secret,” Suna says. Atsumu’s eyes widen, mouth gapes, and oh, he’s angry.

“ _Why am I the last to know everything_?” He throws his hands up and yells, storming away from the lunch hall. Probably to sulk alone. Hopefully to sulk alone.

* * *

Atsumu doesn’t hide that he’s upset during practice, shooting hard glares in Suna’s direction and intentionally not tossing the ball to him even if it’s the perfect opportunity to score a point. Suna doesn’t mind, so he doesn’t say anything. It’s just one practice, and he knows Atsumu will be over it by tomorrow, maybe even a few hours. He always is.

“Did ya refuse to do his homework or something?” Osamu asks Suna, who’s using his water bottle to cool the back of his head, where Atsumu just served the ball.

“No. It’s Atsumu. He’s being an idiot,” Suna grumbles.

Osamu blows a breath out of his nose, he finds it funny, and squirts water from his bottle into his mouth. Suna tries to avoid watching the droplets trickle out of his mouth and down his chin, trailing down his sweaty neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp. No, he doesn’t notice it. His face is just red because the gym is hot and he’s tired from moving around a lot, thanks.

* * *

By Thursday, Atsumu still isn’t tossing to Suna. He’s not talking to him either, and has even gone as far as to ignore his presence completely, turning his head whenever Suna nodded hello or approached the lunch table. Suna wouldn’t have minded this either, he preferred it, even, but Osamu reminds him they had a practice match coming up, and Atsumu’s too arrogant and stubborn to apologise, so it should be Suna.

“I know Kita-san’s gonna tell ya anyway, he noticed, asked me if everything was okay between you two. I know it’s Tsumu’s fault, whatever it is, but he’s never been like this with you.”

Which was true. Atsumu and Suna fought a lot, but it never lasted long for either of them, just a jab comment here and there until Atsumu got bored and Suna had nothing to retort to. Osamu was the one who had to deal with the worst of Atsumu, the physical fights, deep-wounded insults. It was strange how quickly siblings could make up after saying and doing such horrible things.

Suna doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have anything to say. It _is_ Atsumu’s fault, for being a child that cries when he doesn’t get the toy he wants, when he doesn’t get his way. It’s pathetic, and if his back wasn’t turned towards him, Suna would stare him down and whisper gibberish into Osamu’s ear to make Atsumu feel bad.

“Are you guys…” Osamu trails off, not meeting Suna’s eye. Suna just cocks his head.

“Ya know.”

Suna blinks.

“ _Ya know_ ,” Osamu says again with more emphasis, like it makes a difference.

“I obviously don’t.”

Osamu groans, frustrated. He brings the ball up to his forehead for a moment before dropping it and bouncing it once. Twice. He looks at Suna then back down. This is weird. Suna wants to hold his hand.

“Is it like… a domestic?”

“ _Hah_?”

Osamu shakes his head. “Nevermind. Forget it.”

Suna launches the ball at Osamu, not caring where he hit, just as long as it was hard enough to make a point. Osamu holds out his hands and pulls up his leg to shield his body, but it’s a moment too late, and the ball ricochet’s straight off his head and back into Suna’s chest. Suna catches it, ready to throw it again.

“Calm down, ya crazy person! It was a question!” Osamu rubs the side of his head, one hand still weakly held out in case Suna decides to play dodgeball again.

“ _Men_ , Osamu, _men_. Not apes,” Suna jokes, but it barely comes out as one, because he was genuinely, inexplicably offended. To his core. He wants to hit Osamu with his hand, but his stomach betrays him for whatever reason, making him nauseous at the thought of his skin touching Osamu’s, at the thought of touching Atsumu’s skin. Both images attacked him at once, so he doesn’t know which one makes his stomach flip, and whether it was the good type of flip, or bad.

“Jus’ making sure,” Osamu mutters and pads the ball again, and Suna thinks he understands.

“You think Atsumu’s gay?”

Osamu looks up at him, his thick eyebrows furrow and he’s confused. And that makes Suna confused, so they’re both just staring at each other with their confused faces and it looks so incredibly stupid from a third perspective.

“You think he is?” Osamu finally breaks the tension, and Suna instantly shakes his head.

“I’ve seen him wear plaid shorts,” Suna says, and Osamu laughs. There’s no confusion to what Suna means now.

“Okay, good.”

Suna freezes, the ball lodged between his hands, the court goes quiet. Not actually, but to him it does. His mind blocks the sounds out, he’s busy thinking about _‘good’_ , and _‘okay’_ , and ‘ _okay, good,_ ’ and what the fuck does that mean?

“I didn’t — you know I didn’t —” Osamu’s mouth is gaping and he keeps cutting himself off. “Suna, you know I didn’t.” He says finally. Clearly.

Of course, he _didn’t_. If he _did_ , they wouldn’t be best friends. If he _did_ , Osamu wouldn’t let him sleep in the same bed when he spent the night, or share his food with him, or change in and out of clothes around him, or jokingly wrestle him on the ground for drawing dicks on his arm while they’re meant to be studying. If Osamu _did_ , none of that would happen. But he _didn’t_. He _didn’t_ _mean it_ like _that_.

“Rin.”

“Yeah,” Suna nods, but his head feels light so he stops. “Yeah, I know. Calm down, crazy person.”

The corner of Osamu’s lip quirks up. It’s half-hearted, he still looks uncomfortable and red. _You didn’t_.

“So,” Osamu clears his throat, “what did ‘Tsumu do?”

“He stormed off after I said I like guys. Seemed pretty homophobic, if you ask me,” Suna says in mock-defense, kind of a joke, but also kind of not. He glances sideways at Osamu, who’s eyes widened and eyebrows tilt up, all fractionally, barely noticeable. _You didn’t_.

“You told him?”

“He told me you told him, then got mad that I didn’t shit myself.” Suna’s more curious now, _why did you tell him_?

“You know how he is. Probably just thought it was some big deal and you were preparing to tell him next,” Osamu tosses the ball high up, runs up, and jumps to serve it over. His palm creates a loud smack at the contact. Gulp. It hits the net. Osamu curses under his breath.

“ _Boooo_! You suck! Kita-san, we’ll lose all our games with him on!” Atsumu yells from the other side of the court, the captain acknowledging the jeers by patting him on the shoulder a couple of times as he walks past.

“So, what should I do?” Suna asks after serving the ball. It touches the tape, barely making it over, and Suna cringes.

“ _Kita-san!_ ”

“Just tell him if it was a secret, he’d be second to know. Or just tell him you were joking, he’ll get over it easier,” Osamu pauses, then adds. “Ya know, ‘cause then there’s nothing to argue.”

Suna nods, and nods, and he keeps nodding, because his mouth is dry and his throat is tight, and even if he could speak, all he would say is _you did, you did, you did._

* * *

Practice ends and Suna is waiting on the bench outside of the gym, watching the doors for Atsumu to come out so they can talk. Kita told Suna he didn’t have to apologise, “but it’ll probably be over faster if you do. He needs to start setting to you again by Saturday.”

As it often happens in the rare case that he’s thinking about Atsumu, his mind desaturates his hair colour and flips the parting to the other side, and suddenly, _Osamu_ , in all his expressionless glory.

Suna never felt like he had to be worried about coming out to Osamu, it was just a matter of finding the right time. Naturally, he came out to him first. It was a year ago, they were watching a movie in the his bedroom (alone, Atsumu had just left with who-gives-a-fuck and Atsumu-can-you-just-go) and Suna was having trouble keeping his eyes open. The movie was boring and they had just come back from a victorious practice match against a rival team and the follow up group dinner. To say that Suna was tired would have been an understatement. He was exhausted and stuffed, but Osamu had been looking forward to this movie since the month before. Suna didn’t want to disappoint.

His head started moving on it’s own accord, and before he could process what was happening, it had fallen on Osamu’s shoulder. It was as if his cheek touched fire, Suna's head shot upright, his usually lidded eyes opened wide, whole body tensed. He’s awake, he’s sofuckingawake and his heart was beating out of his chest because he was still closeted and Osamu’s shoulders are hard and all muscle. Body, behave!

“You can if ya want,” Osamu had said, still watching the movie. “If yer tired.”

Suna stared at him. Would Osamu think back to this moment and regret it when Suna eventually told him? No. Osamu almost never regrets anything, the only notable thing being letting Atsumu leave the womb first. “ _I’m never letting him go first for anything again_ ,” Osamu would say, and Suna would laugh before they continued doing their homework.

“I’m gay.”

Osamu’s hand was already resting on the laptop, but for a moment it looked like it moved, as if he was about to pause the movie then decided not to.

“Like, guys?”

Suna nodded. Yes, my little Einstein. Guys.

“Okay,” Osamu said, and continued to watch the main character scream out a never-ending monologue about something. Suna doesn’t know, he doesn’t speak English. “Well, if yer tired.”

And Suna was tired, so he took up the offer.

The memory is still fresh and warm in Suna’s mind, wrapped around a protective casing that prevents him from ever forgetting it; how Osamu shifted to accommodate his head, how his shirt smelled like typical boys cologne but was somehow so unique to only him, how easily Suna fell asleep and woke up in the same position, the weight of Osamu’s head on his. He had a painful neck cramp for days afterwards, but it was really easy to numb it. All he had to do was look in Osamu’s direction. It was so grossly, sickly cheesy, and Suna overindulged like he’d been starving for weeks. 

Though a part of him thinks he genuinely _has_ been starving. He couldn’t tell you for how long, but he knew his hunger was growing daily.

Atsumu walks out of the gym, his head tilted up, as if checking the weather. Suna sighs. As good a time as any. He lifts himself off the bench, padding towards Atsumu, who definitely notices his approach because he lingers, like Suna should be so lucky to have found an opportune moment to talk. Suna wants to walk past him without saying anything and laugh about it later with Osamu, but he misses doing something other than blocking.

“Atsumu.”

“Hm?” Atsumu’s head turns quickly towards Suna, unexpecting.

 _I’ve seen dogs act better than you_. “Can we talk?” Suna asks.

Atsumu doesn’t say anything, his brown eyes look off to the side and he pouts, pretending to think. Suna narrows his eyes slightly. _You have no friends! You’re not busy! Just let me fucking apologise, you Neanderthal!_

“I guess I have a minute.”

Suna wishes it only takes that.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Suna doesn’t know either, so he shrugs. “Just am. Don’t want you to be mad at me.”

“Pretty shit apology then, Rin, if ya don’t even know what yer apologising for. I don’t know if I wanna accept it,” Atsumu crosses his arms. Suna would happily bet that Atsumu doesn’t even know what he should be apologizing for.

Kita and Omimi walk out of the gym on cue. They definitely heard. Suna receives a look from Kita, a knowing one, an empathetic one. His calm voice speaks in Suna’s head, _I came to you because you’ll listen. Atsumu won’t._

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Suna says, “I assumed you knew.”

“I found out late, and now I’m thinking.” Please, don’t. “You think I’m hot?”

Suna’s face scrunches up, repulsed. He wishes he never approached him, so to hell with the upcoming game, he’ll just skip it and sit in his room, jerking off to everyone who didn’t look like Atsumu instead.

“I’m not makin’ a move, but if ya think I’m hot, then ya think Samu’s hot, and that means you wanna fuck him.”

“What’s that logic? You wanna fuck everyone you find attractive?” Suna asks, and for some reason he’s not surprised that Atsumu shrugs.

“Just answer.”

“No, I don't,” Suna says. He’s not lying, but it’s not worth explaining to him that Atsumu will never be attractive to Suna for reasons that Osamu is. Despite that they’re identical, really, they very seldom are. “I like taller guys. Beefy guys,” Suna adds just to be safe, and also to use this opportunity to make Atsumu feel bad. You know, because he’s shorter, and that’s supposed to be unattractive, or something. Low blow. Atsumu actually looks like he can’t give less of a fuck.

“Alright.”

Atsumu’s arms are still crossed. Suna is not forgiven.

“You’d be second to know, if it was a secret,” Suna blurts. That should work, right? Osamu said it would.

“Whatever. You’re just saying that.”

“It was a joke,” Suna caves into his final resort. It’s not like Atsumu’s ever going to walk in on him sucking dick, or doing anything else that’s a big rainbow arrow pointing at him with the word HOMO in flashing lights. At Suna’s informal wedding, he’ll tell Atsumu that his to-be husband is actually the best man, and they’re practicing for when the long hair, big-tiddy woman bride is ready. “Osamu was in on it. It’s a prank, we wanted you to feel left out.” It’s not so implausible, the pair have done a lot to make Atsumu angry, or look stupid, or both.

“Shaddup, stop acting like that’s my issue with you. Yer down-playing all the shitty things you do to the same level as yer gayness. It’s not even comparable. You don’t choose to like dick, but you _do_ choose to be one.” Wise words. Suna would guess Churchill.

“What do you want from me?”

"You’ll do anything?”

“Short of touching you, fine.”

“You wish,” Atsumu huffs, but he’s smiling now and his arms are by his sides, so at least everything is sorted. He will set to Suna again. “You’ll write the confession?”

“Again with this shit—”

“I know Kita-san spoke to you, I’ll tell him you spat on my face.”

How dumb. “Tell him I beat you up and called you gay.”

“Are ya doing it or not? ‘Cause we have a game coming up, and it’d be a shame if we lost just because you weren’t a team player, and everyone on the team will hate you, especially Kita-san—”

“Fine! Fuck—fine, I’ll do it,” Suna snaps. Atsumu smirks. They’re walking now, away from the gym. Atsumu is moving like he normally does after they won a match, proud, buzzing. Fine, he won, whatever. Who cares. 

“You can talk about Osamu’s muscles or something, right? Make it sound like yer into him, yeah?”

Suna cares! This is self-torture! Mutilation of his identity! All of his private thoughts and feelings, the very ones he’s tried to understand and hide for so long, exposed under the false pretense that he’s a girl who doesn’t even mean it. Who doesn’t even appreciate Osamu, doesn’t deserve Osamu! Suna already hates her, so technically him but not. Maybe he hates himself for agreeing to this, knowing that he’ll be upset if Osamu rejects the letter, his feelings, his secret longing to say all the things he’s wanted to say till now, but equally as upset if he accepts them. Accepts her. The other Suna, who is perfect in all ways but one.

“You’ll be convincing, right?”

“Yeah,” Suna says mindlessly.

* * *

Atsumu forces Suna to stay after class the next day. Neither get their lunch, but only Suna seems bothered by it. He’s cranky and can’t think of how to start the letter. Atsumu’s sitting on the other side of the table, straddling the chair with his arms crossed over the backrest.

“Pour yer heart out, Rin,” Atsumu jokes, the tell in his lopsided grin.

They write a list of Osamu’s good features, potential things to mention in the confession. Atsumu states many of the ones they share — _he’s got a nice bone structure, people overlook our cheekbones, don’t ya think? — The undercut was a good choice, but I was talking about getting one before he was. First my genes, now my hair — I think anyone who’s good at sports is hot. I’ll bend over for any setter in highschool that’s better than me. You won’t find one. No, seriously, Rin, it’s on paper, so you won’t find one. I’ll bet on it, seriously, Rin._

“Shouldn’t we be talking about Osamu?”

Atsumu furrows his brows.

“What’ve I been doing for ten minutes?”

They begin writing together. Atsumu has gotten enough confessions to know how they typically start. Suna lets him lead.

“Make it more casual,” he says when Suna writes ‘Dear Miya-san’. He flips to the next blank page in his notebook. “Samu’s not like that.”

 _I know he’s not like that_ , Suna wants to say, but decides against it. He writes it carefully, with pretty handwriting; _Dear Osamu_.

They introduce the imaginary girl well. She watches his games, is impressed by his skill, admires his tenacity (“ _she’s clearly never played with him_ ,” Atsumu snorts. “ _We should ask her to try out for the team,_ ” Suna nods derisively). She wants to get to know him better, wonders the type of person he is off court, if he’s just as exciting, or has another side to him, one that she’s just as eager to get acquainted with. It feels strange for Suna to write like he’s clueless about Osamu, when he knows all the things that the ‘girl’ is wondering.

Atsumu tells him to write something nice, that even if Osamu doesn’t show it, “every guy likes getting their ass kissed. You especially, right?”

“Yeah, I’m obsessed, all tongue and spit and ten fingers—”

“Okay, okay! Ugh, Rin, now it’s in my fucking head!”

Atsumu agrees with Suna’s decisions to compliment Osamu’s aura and put an end to the incredibly short-lived gay jokes. The idea of an aura seemed girly and far enough of a concept from a boy’s own thoughts to rule them out as people who might have written the letter. Osamu’s aura, according to the _girl_ , is naturally alluring, his presence makes her feel more confident, it uplifts her, she’s happier when he’s around. She’s so tempted to touch and approach him, but she'll have to be at a distance, for now.

 _Would you be free to go on a date next Saturday? We’ll go to a restaurant, your choice, I’m not picky!_ Suna knows Osamu has no plans, and suddenly wants to fit himself into his schedule. “He’ll get stood up, it’ll be funny and waste his time. Plus, he’ll be hungry, so he’ll be really annoyed,” Atsumu explains.

“What happened to breaking his heart?” If the plan was to annoy him, he would suggest locking him in a room with Atsumu. Much easier and definitely more effective.

“Fuck that. Missing lunch is way worse.”

She likes English movies, like him, and she has a dog, a labrador, his favorite. He’s welcome to meet ‘Chiyo’ anytime. They don’t have enough time to think up a name that both of them like (Yui is too basic, Harumi is too masculine, any names that were direct classmates ran the risk of embarrassing them, too), so they signed it off with their combined initials: _M.S._

They finish it right before their next class and read it over one last time. It’s good, it’s convincing, maybe a little too much so. Little hearts are scattered between sentences parsimoniously, Osamu doesn’t like when people act desperate, Atsumu reminds him. He was more involved than Suna originally thought, but then again, they’re twins so it’s to be expected that he knows a lot. Suna had more control over how it was all written, the wording, grammar, tone, handwriting, it’s all cute and coy.

Atsumu tells him the part about the aura is deep, he thinks Suna should become a poet, but doesn’t let him digest the compliment. “Don’t most poets die sad and alone?” It’s a genuine question.

Suna is zoned out, staring at the confession. It was all too easy to write. 

“Probably.”

* * *

Suna’s there when Atsumu gives him the letter before practice.

“She couldn’t find you, said she couldn’t wait, or something.” Atsumu says irritably. Turns out, Atsumu can be a decent actor when he wants to be, or he’s just too self-aware for someone so incorrigible. To Osamu, Atsumu’s annoyed it’s not _him_ receiving the letter.

Osamu looks at the letter kind of unphased, which is a relief, because it likely meant he’s unsuspecting. He reaches for it and takes it out of Atsumu’s hand.

“What is it?”

“Emancipation letter. Mom didn’t know how to tell ya.”

The pink envelope with the small heart was one that Atsumu had received a confession in two weeks ago. It’s recycling, so it’s not completely tasteless.

“Who’s it from?”

“I don’t pay attention to people with bad taste.”

Suna’s palms are sweating, he’s stressing. What if Osamu finds out? What if Osamu _already_ _knows_? Suna swears he’ll eat the letter right now if he has to, literally shove it in his fucking mouth and swallow it. He’ll be a goat to save what’s left of his dignity.

Osamu flips the letter, looking around it twice, then drops it into his bag, zipping it up and grabbing his water bottle to leave.

“Coming?” He asks when Suna isn’t walking through the door with him. Suna blinks and nods, following Osamu, his own bottle in hand.

“Aren’t you gonna read it?”

“Yeah, later. We have practice now.”

* * *

Suna’s relief lasts till the end of practice, and then Osamu sticks to his promise, and Suna’s shitting himself again. He tries not to watch as Osamu’s unfolding the letter by digging through his bag and searching for something that he knows he doesn’t have. Self respect. A boyfriend. A fresh pair of socks. Yeah, keep looking.

It’s quiet. Sometimes, Osamu’s fingers rustle the paper and it sends shivers down Suna’s spine. The silence is painful. Are his words doing anything to Osamu? He’s not reacting. The internal debate continues: reject the letter, but also don’t.

“In love with her yet?” Suna’s voice waivers. He’s just tired, he excuses.

The corner of Osamu’s lip turns up _—_ Suna did that, not the girl, he’s sure _—_ but keeps reading, his eyes moving mechanically down the page.

Finally, he folds the paper, puts it back in the envelope, and slides it into his bag. Suna wants to ask what he thinks again, but he already did once. Any more and he’ll look suspicious.

“She has a dog,” Osamu finally says.

“Oh.”

“His name is Chiyo, he’s a labrador,” Osamu smiles fondly, and everything in Suna’s life has led to him being jealous of a dog that doesn’t exist. What’s so special about them anyway? Suna can put his head on Osamu’s lap and lick his fingers, too. “She said I’m welcome to see him whenever.”

“That’s one way to bring someone home.”

Osamu shrugs. “It was friendly.”

Suna’s reaction is instant. He can’t help it, his face scrunches, eyebrows puckered and mouth ajar. 

“What’s with that face?”

Oh, right. What’s on the letter? What’s a confession? Suna knows nothing.

“I—just—meeting someone's dog is pretty intimate,” Suna’s shocked for reasons that have nothing to do with dogs. Osamu isn’t aware of that. “That’s her companion,” and man’s best friend, _blah_ , don’t forget about me!

Osamu chuckles, and his face is one that’s bemused in a way where if they weren’t best friends, he might turn around and mumble ‘uh, okaayyy.’ Suna’s blushing but they’re leaving the locker room, so it’s fine, the sun's setting and kissing orange against their skin.

They’re walking quietly beside each other. Suna can’t tell what Osamu’s thinking, he’s too taken aback to ask. Did he reject it, or did he not? In a very Osamu fashion, he went for something discreet, something difficult to read. 

Suna knows Osamu. He’d like to think he knows Osamu well enough to accurately suspect that he didn’t read the letter as _friendly_ . There’s no way he could, it was a flat out confession. A _you’re attractive, I could fall in love with you, let’s date_ confession. For Osamu to call it friendly could mean one of two things.

Osamu doesn’t trust Suna anymore. He’s accepted the letter, the confession, and wants to go through with it, but doesn’t want to tell Suna, for whatever reason. Maybe it’s because he knows of Suna’s small crush on him, maybe it’s just because girls aren’t common ground. This would be the worst case scenario and that’s why Suna thinks of it first, letting himself believe it momentarily just so he can move on from it. It’s like throwing up when something doesn’t sit right in your stomach. It passes, he’s feeling better.

The other scenario, not much better but definitely not worse, Osamu rejected it. He’s not interested, but flattered enough to save face on her behalf. She wants to be friends and that’s it, nothing more. There’s no objection to this friendship, she’s getting what she wanted, and he still looks cool — people want to be friends with him, but that much was always obvious. Suna’s still not happy with this scenario. Those were, after all, his words that were being rejected. His guise. Him. Suna isn’t enough for Osamu, fake dog and all, and that’s a hard pill to swallow. He tries to remember just how much of himself he put into that letter, and decides he wants to underestimate and never find out.

“Are you gonna go?” Suna asks, he can’t help himself.

“To see the dog?” Osamu is dedicated to the pebble on the ground. He kicks it.

Suna nods.

“‘T’s my favorite breed,” Osamu says like he’s weighing his options.

“Yeah,” Suna says quietly. “What else did she say?” _The date, would you have accepted the date? Are you going to accept the date?_

“Not much. She watches my games, likes English movies, something about my aura, I didn’t really get it,” Osamu shrugs. Suna wants to grab him by his broad shoulders and shake him, _the date! Fuck the aura, what about the date!_

“Aura? Huh. That’s weird,” Suna mutters, because he wants to insult the girl but the girl is him and his brain is putty. He’s embarrassed, he wants to re-explain it until Osamu gets it.

They reach the crossroad where they have to split. Osamu still hasn’t said what Suna wants him to say, but not even Suna knows what he wants him to say. _Say everything she wrote was perfect but reject her because you like me more_. And then Osamu proposes and everyone claps.

Osamu pops a different question. It's almost as good. “Atsumu’s with the others tonight. You busy?”

“Not really,” Suna doesn’t waste any time, he’s feeling possessive.

“Come over.”

They walk down the same sidewalk in silence. Suna thinks up another scenario on the walk to their house. Osamu’s an idiot, he seriously can’t tell when someone is pining for him.

* * *

Osamu’s lying on his bed and reading the letter when Suna comes out of his shower. He thinks if he cries now it would blend in with the water dripping from his hair down his face. He’s not going to cry, though, so he doesn’t know why that crosses his mind.

“Wanna watch the Johnny movie?” Suna means The Shining, but they started referring to it as the ‘Johnny’ movie after Suna, Osamu, and Atsumu first heard the memorable line and couldn’t stop quoting it for the following two weeks. Atsumu’s impression was especially good, so he would scream “ _Here’s Johnny_!” in practice whenever he blocked. Suna and Osamu would laugh until Kita told them to stop messing around.

“I thought ya hated that movie,” Osamu drops the hand with the letter onto his chest. Their eyes meet.

“No, I liked it. I had fun watching it last time,” and it gives Suna a reason to lean into Osamu during the jumpscares. Not that they ever worked, but Suna was willing to pretend it was the scariest thing he’d ever seen if it meant he could feel the warmth of Osamu’s arm pressed up against his.

“Okay,” Osamu says and pushes himself off the bed with a soft grunt. Something in Suna’s lower abdomen stirs _,_ he ignores it. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s had to push the thoughts aside. Osamu changes in front of him everyday, he hears him sigh when a play doesn’t work, the sounds and images are supplied to him constantly, he can't help it. He saves it for when he’s alone.

Osamu switches the letter for his laptop and returns to the bed. As he searches for the movie online, Suna pulls up a pair of Osamu’s shorts over his underwear, and then throws on a plain white shirt, also Osamu’s.

“She asked me out on a date,” Osamu says as soon as Suna sits back down.

Suna’s surprised for someone who already knows.

“So much for being friendly,” Suna smirks. He’s thinking up ten new scenarios as they speak.

“I skimmed it the first time, got hung up on the dog. She asked me out on a date,” Osamu says again and clicks on a sketchy website with a bad page design. Beggars can’t be choosers.

“Are you gonna say yes?” Okay, now say no.

Osamu pouts like he’s considering. He’s still staring at the screen, hasn’t looked at Suna once. Suna wants to pull on his lip with his teeth, but because he’s petty, and a little pent up, he imagines drawing blood.

“You should go.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, why not?” Suna realises too late that he’s coaxing Osamu to go on a date where he’ll certainly be stood up. Or maybe he was aware of that as he said it. There’s no point in dwelling on it.

Osamu shrugs.

“She said I can pick where to eat.”

“That’s nice,” Suna hums. “Have you decided?”

“Not yet.” Yet. “What do you think?”

“There’s a good tonkatsu place near the school,” Suna doesn't think when saying it, it just comes out. Osamu acknowledges it silently.

The movie is starting. The scene opens on a mountain, they’re watching intently, their arms aren’t touching. A minute passes, Osamu shamelessly shifts closer to Suna, leaning his weight onto him, his thigh, his hip, his arm. His entire side is pressed up against Osamu’s warm, firm body.

“Stay the night?”

It doesn’t mean anything, Osamu just likes familiarity. Sat like this, Suna can afford to imagine, just for tonight, that Osamu is already on his date.

“Sure.”

* * *

Atsumu’s back home an hour later and finds them in the same position, asleep. Suna’s head on Osamu’s shoulder, Osamu’s head resting on Suna’s. He crane's his neck to see what they were watching, and takes a deep breath in.

“ _Here’s Johnny!_ ”

Twin fist fight ensues, Suna’s rubbing the knot in his neck.

* * *

The only real difference between post-win Atsumu and post-loss Atsumu was the tears. They’re back in the bus, waiting for the coaches to finish talking, and Atsumu isn’t crying.

“Ya start slow and ya end slow, that’s all ya are! Slow!” Atsumu yells right over Suna’s head, gripping onto Suna’s headrest while glaring down at him. His accent is tenfold. “Ya leave everything to us! Let _us_ rack up the points so you can sleep on court, right?!”

Suna’s got headphones plugged in — Atsumu doesn’t exist after matches. Ommmm.

“We won the game, what more do you want?” Osamu tuts, falling into his seat with a thump. 

“What’re ya, his lawyer? Who the fuck is talking to ya, mister dogshit-reflexes. Go back to junior high and learn how to do a decent fuckin’ pass! We didn’t need a third set! What’re ya giving me a damn heart attack like that for!” Atsumu kicks the back of Osamu’s seat, and the latter’s up in an instant, hurling his hands towards Atsumu, one to grab his head, and the other to punch his shoulder. 

Atsumu’s prideful, he’s throwing his own fists. The bus is filled with the sounds of smacks and thuds, grunts and huffs. One blow is especially loud, and Atsumu snarls. Kita’s voice, amidst the ruckus, is overbearing.

“ _Oi_!”

The twins are off each other swiftly. Osamu respects him; Atsumu wants to be the next captain.

“Atsumu, sit up front, with me.”

Atsumu’s entire body tenses. He slides out space between the seats and follows Kita to the front of the bus. Kita’s expression is stern, but could be worse. Atsumu, on the other hand, does not seem at all bashful. He knows what Kita will say, he doesn’t care.

Murmurs spread through the bus. They’re not talking about what just happened, they’re returning to their own conversations. Some people are just trying to sleep. Namely, Suna.

Osamu falls back into the seat next to him, their legs brush and Suna pulls back, leaning them away from Osamu.

“I’m gonna kill him one day,” Osamu exhales, rubbing his forehead. “It’ll be an accident, but I will.”

Suna could pretend he didn’t hear. He _wants_ to pretend he didn’t hear. But the night before left a bitter taste in his mouth and he wants to spit it out, say something about his date being the perfect alibi for a murder. 

He settles for something not as obvious.

“You feed into his shit too much.”

Osamu’s head whips in Suna’s direction, one eyebrow cocked.

“Fuck me for defending you, I guess.”

His scoff is justified. It’s barely been a minute since him and Atsumu went all WWE on each other, but Suna’s been itchy since yesterday, maybe a whole year, he deserves to be snarky.

“Don’t worry about defending me, save that energy for when you’re in back row.”

Osamu screws up his face. “You on his side now?”

“Please, I’m not taking a side. Just saying a third set could have been avoided, had you focused on receiving as much as you do other things.” Likes dates and girls and dates with girls. The second set was lost to the powerful spike that skidded off Osamu’s arms. The same powerful spike that _Suna_ didn’t reach in time to block. Osamu won’t call him out for his hypocrisy, he’s not concerned about things like that.

“And since when do you care about games all of a sudden?”

“I’ve always cared, I’m just not an emotional player like some people,” Suna says it like he’s implying that Osamu is _some people_ , but he knows he’s speaking out of his ass. Osamu is already riled up, so how much can Suna push it? _Be angry enough for the both of us, I beg of you._

Osamu doesn’t say anything, his hands are still on top of the bag on his lap. Suna can sense his weight shift. He hopes Osamu will stand up and sit on a different seat, because Suna’s feeling angsty and if Osamu rejects him for that, it’s validated. His head rests against the cold window — it's uncomfortably hard, nothing like a certain somebody’s shoulder — and he’s peeking through one eye, at the reflection, to track any change.

There is none. Osamu’s eyes are closed the entire way back. Suna’s _some people_.

* * *

**Atsumu**

10:21 am 

_he asked me what she looks like_

_what do I say_

_Describe your mom_

_that’s not even funny_

_whatre you saying, my moms hot?_

_freak_

_shouldve said my dad_

10:29 am 

_seriously help_

_Idk. Pretty_

_no like actual features_

_he wants to find her and give her a letter face to face_

10:32 am 

_what do I say_

10:36 am 

_should I tell him to give it to me cuz she’s in my class?_

_Dude IM in class, stop texting me._

_gaaaaaaaayy_

* * *

“He said my description was shit and gave me the letter to pass on,” Atsumu tells Suna in class. Neither of them acknowledged what happened on the bus, that’s why they stay friends.

“How’d you describe her?” Suna asks. His hand tightens around the pen, big deal, Suna’s gonna be with someone who can crush his head with their thighs. Osamu’s not even there yet.

“Dark hair, average height, slim.”

“So most of Japan, then?”

Atsumu cracks a cheeky grin. He pulls out a white wrinkled envelope from his bag and lazily holds it out for Suna to take.

“D’you wanna read it?”

“No,” Suna says, he knows Atsumu will ask why. “It’s your thing, not mine.”

“Yeah, but you wrote it,” Atsumu reminds him, stretching his arm further.

“You forced me to.”

“Whatever,” Atsumu huffs and leans back in his seat, dropping the letter back into his bag. The cheeky grin returns, wider now, and he throws his hands behind his head. “It’s lame anyway. He suggested some tonkatsu place for their _date_.”

Suna’s fine, he’s fine. He’ll breathe, don’t worry, just give him a second.

There is no date. There is no girl. All of it is fake and there’s no real relationship that could actually come out of this, Suna knows this. But his chest still hurts and he’s chewing the inside of his cheek.

Suna wants to be irrational. _It’s me you like, not he_ r, he wants to tell Osamu, _you said yes to my words, to my date, so let’s go._ How difficult would it be to get him on board, really, if he agrees to go on a date with someone he’s never met? Osamu’s not superficial, he doesn’t have a type. “I like what I like,” he always said when the boys would ask. Curvy or flat, long hair or short, glasses or no glasses, there’s no trend to what Osamu found attractive. 

Except, of course, that they’re all girls.

* * *

Since Friday night, Suna feels angry whenever he sees Osamu, so he’s avoiding him. But when it’s already Monday and they haven’t really spoken (not even a meme on Instagram, come on), Suna thinks that Osamu’s avoiding him back, and now Suna’s even _more_ pissed because _how_ _dare_ _he_. 

The reality of the situation is that Suna’s horny and depressed, and Osamu doesn’t understand it, but gives him his space, because that’s what Suna wants, right?

Yes, but no. Suna needs space because he doesn’t want it, and the concept isn’t complicated enough to be a philosophical concern that can only be solved if addressed. It’s pretty straightforward, Suna likes him, wants to sit on him, Osamu likes pussy, wants nothing slapping against his stomach during sex. Cue the sad orchestra, Suna will conduct with the nimble fingers that are being put to use around Osamu’s cock in a parallel universe. It’s becoming sad, how often Suna’s envious of the figments of his imagination.

Osamu is mainly around Aran or Ginjima. He seems distracted, though, when Suna enters the lunch hall and Osamu’s subtly scanning the lunch hall like he’s looking for something, for someone. Suna doesn’t want to sit next to him while he searches for who he thinks is his future wife, it feels kind of cuckold-y. Usually, sky’s the limit, but to this he puts his foot down. He finds Atsumu and asks him to eat with him.

“But outside. It’s loud inside.”

Atsumu’s holding onto both of the straps of his bag, he looks like a child when he blinks with his downturned eyes.

“Are you tryna get me alone so you can confess—”

“Fucking—nevermind,” Suna turns on his heels and walks off, but he’s pulled back by the one strap he wears over his shoulder. He trips backwards, Atsumu pushes him back into balance, releasing the strap to smack Suna’s nape and saunter ahead.

“Kidding. C’mon.”

They eat lunch together for the rest of the week. Suna’s grateful that Atsumu doesn’t ask about it (“Are we eating inside today?” “No.” “Freak.”), but the tradeoff is him whining every few minutes about his ass freezing against the benches. It could have been worse, he could have spent the entire time talking about their ‘successful’ prank, but it’s never brought up. Atsumu’s just delighted it got as far as it did — Osamu accepted the date, he’ll go on it, no one will show up, and… well, that’s it. 

That’s going to be the end of it.

It becomes a mantra, replaying over and over in Suna’s head until the entire thing is watered down and seems utterly insignificant. The epiphany makes him come back to his senses, the ones that recognise just how much he misses Osamu. By Friday he decides he’s gone far over his Atsumu intake for the week, he’s making a beeline to the lunch hall.

Suna has spoken with Osamu during practices, that much was unavoidable, but it was different and awkward in a way it’s never been between them. And they only spoke volleyball related things, block here, serve there, it barely counts. Suna hates it, he can tell by his face that Osamu does too.

Suna’s in front of the doors. He’s casual, relaxed, if his body doesn't show it, his eyes do. He looks at their usual table upon entry and finds Osamu first.

Slouching, chin leaning on his palm, his lunchbox isn’t even open. He’s got a half-smile, the lazy one, the hot one, he must’ve made a joke, Suna can’t wait to ask what it was. He takes another step forward, but stops when Osamu’s eyes shift focus.

They’re moving slowly, lingering around certain tables. They narrow slightly at the other entrance, barely, it’s amazing Suna can catch it, then again, how could he not? Suna’s burned into his mind what that means. He’s searching. Still.

Suna steps out of the lunch hall.

The air in the building is biting. His blood is running cold. It somehow seems warmer outside.

* * *

Atsumu finds him sitting alone like a loser who’s just been broken up with. Suna’s staring at his food with his usual expression, but anyone who knows him well will know the subtle difference that indicates he’s upset.

“What, you’re sick of me now, too?”

“I’m always sick of you,” Suna says without any bite because he’s too desolate and a little too dramatic to move his jaw. Atsumu snorts as he sits beside him, his tray has something from everything in the food pyramid, he preaches balanced eating.

“But you’re sick of me less than you are of Osamu,” Atsumu says knowingly.

“Who said I’m sick of him?” Suna challenges. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling and he doesn’t want to discuss it with Atsumu. “I just don’t like eating inside.”

“Ya hate it so much yer shivering,” Atsumu agrees. “He’s moping at home, probably misses his boyfriend.”

Suna gives him a look, he doesn’t know what it says, but it’s instinctual.

“Am I wrong?” Atsumu asks passively.

“Yes,” Suna says instantly. _Unfortunately_ , he doesn’t add. “You’ll never be right about that.”

“Why not? It makes sense when ya think about it. Yer actually gay and he’s not _gay_ -gay, but he’s gay enough for you, so go be gay together.”

“Can you stop saying gay,” Suna snaps. Atsumu is fucking his head in a non-gay way.

“It’s my way of showing you I’m comfortable with it, ya have my blessing.”

Suna snorts because who does Atsumu think he is, but still feels the relief of a concern he didn’t even know he had. “I don’t even like him like that,” he lies.

“No, ‘course ya don’t, you just wrote him a letter about how he makes ya feel and how you want to touch him—”

“ _You_ made me write it!”

“Not the aura part, that was yer idea, and ya wrote it like a heartbroken novelist from the nineteenth century,” Atsumu shoots back. Suna scowls, as if he would know what a heartbroken novelist from the nineteenth century sounds like. He tells him that. Atsumu rolls his eyes, both know that’s not the point.

“Whatever, at the end of the day, Samu’s gonna end up marrying ya even if he’s totally straight, ‘cause he’ll only stand to do things for you and you only accept what’s done by him, so can ya both just make up? I’m getting tired of my ass feeling numb all the time.”

“Then go away, it’s not like I’m forcing you to stay,” Suna’s head falls onto the table, tucked behind his forearms.

“True,” Atsumu says, and stays seated.

* * *

It’s Saturday. A normal day, Suna treats it like any other. 

He wakes up at a decent time, has his breakfast like a healthy young man, does his homework like a good little boy, and masturbates like a touch-deprived gay. All in a day’s work.

He’s dazed, and a little sweaty, when his phone chimes. He ignores it when he sees it’s Atsumu, but it goes off again. And again. And it’s hard to bask in the post-nut relief when a roach like Atsumu is in the forefront of Suna’s mind. He picks up his phone. Atsumu is spamming him with skull emojis. Suna replies with his own spam of poop emojis.

**Atsumu**

01:21 pm 

_he’s leaving the house_

_like actually leaving_

_LOL_

Suna was doing so well, and obviously it’s Atsumu that has to ruin it, with his stupid updates and second incoming wave of emoji’s. It’s the clown one and it feels oddly appropriate.

He stands up from his desk and flops down onto his bed, limbs spread out like a starfish. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the silence, everything that couldn’t be heard. The wind isn’t blowing, the birds aren’t chirping, some things are silent, other things aren’t.

Suna likes the silence, but he’s not stingy, he likes sharing it too. It’s easiest with Osamu because he was so accommodating to Suna. Always there for when Suna wanted him, not even needed him, just because he knew he’d show up and there was something about having the power to exploit it that made it less of a problem that they weren’t a thing. A romantic thing, not a friend thing, or a volleyball duo thing. Hold hands, nuzzle into necks, fuck his mouth, call each other babe until everyone around them is cringing thing.

He wants to cry but it’s the type that stays in your throat and refuses to expel tears. He thinks back to what Atsumu said about Osamu marrying him, a joke to emphasize their friendship. It’s frustrating, Atsumu doesn’t get it, the pain of a longing that’ll never end in this lifetime, his only lifetime. Suna doesn’t believe in reincarnation, or anything spiritual, really; soulmates that find each other in different lives, ‘the one’ you’re meant to be with. You like someone and they like you back and that’s where it ends. In Suna’s case, it ends before the latter, and he’s forced to accept that.

Think ahead, like a mature person, see the retrospect before it becomes one. They’re only in highschool, his future has guys that will like him back, that he’ll like back, that are attractive and funny and smart and in comparison to Osamu…

In comparison to Osamu…

Are lacking. Fuck it. He’s shortsighted. Fuck retrospect, fuck the future. He wants Osamu now and he’s upset about it no matter what he tries to tell himself.

Suna’s too focused on the silence, he almost misses his phone going off. He peels himself off the bed and checks the caller ID.

“Hello?” He picks up, voice croaky. He touches beneath his eyes. Dry.

“Hey,” Osamu says, quite normally. “You hungry?”

“Uhhhhh,” Suna’s brain fart accidentally shits itself.

“I’m at that tonkatsu place you were talking about,” Osamu asks casually, too casually, like someone who wasn’t just stood up. “Wanna come?”

Suna knows he should say no, he’d be damned if he’s anyone second resort, by anyone, but especially by Osamu. This is a test of his pride, of his self respect. Saying no means _finally_ accepting.

 _It ends before the latter_ , he reminds himself pitifully.

Suna gives his answer and the call ends. He changes into a pair of jeans and a thick sweater, it’s cold outside.

* * *

Suna always wondered what Osamu would look like on a date. Needless to say, he’s not impressed.

Osamu is wearing sweatpants and their team hoodie, and his hair is flat on top, like he just rolled out of bed and couldn’t be bothered to style it. But it’s Osamu, and Suna’s biased, so naturally, Suna still wants to kiss him. He doesn’t notice Suna immediately, he’s leaning against the restaurant and looking at something on his phone, an indifferent look on his face, as usual.

“You look trash,” Suna says when he’s a few feet away from him. Osamu’s head pops up and the corners of his lips quirk up.

They take their seats in the restaurant, a table near the corner, because Suna likes resting his body against the wall. There’s little time between deciding on what to eat and ordering it to make any conversation, so when they’re finally left with nothing to fill the void of the silence, neither of them know what to say.

Suna’s looking directly at Osamu, Osamu’s just looking around the place.

“Why today?” Suna finally says.

“Didn’t have anything to do since practice was cancelled,” Osamu shrugs. “Why, did you have something today?”

 _Shouldn’t I be asking you that?_ “No, I was just wondering.”

Osamu nods, he looks away again, then back at Suna. “Can I tell you something?”

“What?” Osamu’s eyes, naturally downturned, look even more innocent and pleading, like he’s about to get scolded. Suna’s heart feels mushy. “Yeah—I—you don’t have to ask.”

Osamu shrugs again. “Maybe you don’t wanna listen. Or talk. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“I want to. Both, I want to,” Suna affirms. It’s the first time Osamu claims anything about Suna is difficult. He frowns. “I’m sorry.”

Osamu raises an eyebrow. “Why’re you sorry?”

“I’m a dick,” Suna confesses, “literally, I’m an asshole. You’re not an emotional player, I don’t know why I said that.”

“That’s not it,” Osamu looks confused. “Is that why you were avoiding me?”

“No. I don’t know why I was avoiding you,” Suna says.

“But you were,” Osamu says slowly, confirming it. “Avoiding me.”

“Yeah,” Suna admits sheepishly, it’s redundant to lie at this point, they were inseparable in school with the exception of their classes. When they’re not together, it’s with reason.

Osamu nods, he doesn’t question it further, Suna wonders why. He definitely would if their roles were reversed. That’s the difference between them. Osamu actually accepts things, Suna tells himself he does.

“What did you want to tell me?”

“Oh,” Osamu says vaguely, like it wasn’t even that important. “I wrote a letter back.”

Hearing it from his mouth makes it more real than seeing the letter firsthand.

“What’d you say?” Suna’s a masochist like that.

“Doesn’t matter now, I found it in Tsumu’s bag this morning,” and it doesn’t bother him at all.

“You snooping?” Suna tries to look amused, in that nonchalant way of his. Osamu’s not taking the bait to derail his tone.

“Just checking,” Like, he’s not stupid. Like, he knows who his own brother is.

“Checking what?” Suna asks, as now he’s genuinely curious, and if he can throw all the blame on Atsumu, he will.

“My hypothesis.”

“Hypothesis.”

“Ya know.”

“Dude, I really don’t,” Suna sighs.

Osamu's patience is wavering.

“I checked the class register.”

Suna knows that should mean something, but it doesn’t, so he leaves space for Osamu to elaborate.

“Like, there’s no one with the initials on the letter, I’m saying.”

“Huh,” Suna leans into the wall. And this time Osamu is staring at him expectantly. “Weird.”

Clearly not the response Osamu wanted, he clicks his tongue and averts his gaze from Suna to the kitchen. Suna wouldn’t have given it to him even if he knew what Osamu wanted to hear. He’s still aware that his spot in this seat was reserved for someone else.

Their food arrives and Suna finds that he’s the only one eating, which is a cause for concern, given both the twins’ eating habits. He stops promptly, swallowing what’s left in his mouth and puts down his chopsticks.

“Then stop being vague,” Suna crosses his arms, thinking he’s big now because look at how he doesn’t stand for Osamu’s attitude. The attitude that Osamu put up with for most of their life. Hmph.

“Yeah, fine,” Osamu deadpans. “I think you wrote the letter.”

The building explodes, kids and their mothers are screaming, the ice caps have completely melted, Suna won’t live to see tomorrow. He’s ascending, or descending, whichever gate takes him, as long as he’s not here, on Earth, with Osamu in front of him.

Suna’s eyes must’ve widened, or his breath hitched, some reaction that Osamu perceived as confirmation. He picked up his chopsticks and took one of the slices of pork cutlet, eating it as if he didn’t just acknowledge something that would completely change the course of their friendship.

Suna almost thinks it’s a joke, the way he continues eating, the way his shoulders are slouched, like they’re at school, in the lunch hall, aware of only each other.

“What about Atsumu?” Suna questions lamely, picking up a slice of pork to show he’s just as relaxed, but puts it back down.

“Why didn’t he write it?”

Suna nods, swallowing.

“Maybe. What do you think?” Osamu pops another slice in his mouth and looks at Suna through lidded eyes.

“I think it was him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Everyone thinks Suna is the smart one between the two, his grades are better, but that amounts to nothing when it comes to things that matter. It’s Osamu that understands things, uses his head the way Suna didn’t when he agreed to write the letter. If this was a game, Suna lost before it started.

“Then it’s Atsumu,” Osamu doesn’t look surprised, he doesn’t argue, he just fucking accepts because he’s Osamu and Suna’s jealous that he can do that.

“What if it was me?” Suna argues, lucidity overtaken with nerves.

“Then it was you,” Osamu says in the exact same voice.

“And then what?”

“And then we can talk about it.”

“What’s there to say,” Suna scoffs, it’s rhetorical. He’s afraid of rejection, he doesn’t want Osamu to answer that. Osamu does anyway.

“We can cross that bridge if we get to it.”

“And if we don’t? Ever get to it?”

Translation, _I don’t want to admit it_.

“Then we don’t.”

Translation, _I’m done leading._

* * *

It’s been forty minutes. Neither have said a word the entire time. They’re walking home, an inch further apart than they normally put between each other. It feels like more.

Osamu’s not kicking a rock against the gravel, bystanders aren’t laughing. Suna’s searching for more things to add to the list, otherwise he’ll try to decipher Osamu’s words more than he already has. It’s why Osamu still isn’t talking, Suna decided ten minutes ago, when they first left the restaurant and Osamu only put out a hand to let Suna know he’s paying. Ever the gentleman, even when Suna doesn’t deserve it.

Confessions don’t count until they’re spoken into existence. If Suna did write the letter, which Osamu definitely thinks he did, he said so, Osamu won’t actually consider it. You don’t get what you want by not asking.

Suna’s hands are in his pockets, completely new and uncharacteristic of him.

“Are you mad?”

“At who?” Osamu asks after a few seconds. Suna cringes. Fair enough.

“Atsumu.”

Osamu shakes his head, an easy decision.

“At me?”

Osamu shakes his head again, and Suna has the audacity to almost feel relieved. He doesn’t, not fully, because he took part in something that should be humiliating, intentionally embarrassing for Osamu, and even if Osamu might silently forgive him for it, he shouldn’t forgive himself. He _couldn’t_ forgive himself. 

“You didn’t write it, so why would I be mad at you?”

 _Because I love you and you know that but I can only tell you through a pathetic excuse for a confession prank done with your brother_. But Suna gets it, no hypotheticals, be straight up or deal with the loss. It’s only fair.

“Yeah,” Suna says, thinking if he were Osamu, he would end their friendship then and there. “Right.”

The trees aren’t rustling, their shoes aren’t crunching against the smooth pavement, the sleeping dog in front of the convenience store isn’t barking. They make it to the intersection where they have to split.

Suna avoids Osamu’s gaze, they’re standing in front of each other, waiting for a goodbye, a confession, a rejection, something, anything.

“I…” There’s something lodged in Suna’s throat, probably for the best, he doesn’t know where he was going with that. Osamu’s waiting, not dejected, not hopefully, either.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Will you?” Osamu asks kind of playfully, in complete contrast to his demeanor.

“I will,” Suna tells him, certain, because he will, really, he will. “I’m sorry.”

“Why’re you sorry?” Osamu asked the same question barely an hour ago, but it’s directed towards something entirely different now. Suna can tell.

“Just,” he waves his hand around, _everything_. “You know.”

“I don’t,” Osamu says, a gentle smile on his lips. “I really don’t.”

Suna frowns. They stand there, staring at each other. The wind isn’t blowing, the birds aren’t chirping, some things are silent, other things aren’t. Osamu’s voice.

“I’ll know when you do.”

 _I’ll know when you tell me_.

Maybe if Suna wasn’t Suna, he could tell him. Maybe if Suna didn’t feel so guilty, he could tell him. Maybe if Suna wasn’t so afraid, he could tell him. But he was all of those things, he can’t start things, he can’t finish things, so all he can do is nod, and nod, and nod.

“See you Monday.”

And Osamu takes it like a fucking champ, he’s still smiling that gentle smile, his head is still up, he’s still looking at Suna when Suna can’t bare to meet his eyes. Rejection feels just as bad when it’s not being done to you, Suna realises.

Osamu puts his hand on Suna’s shoulder, and it’s so warm, Suna wishes it stayed there forever. It doesn’t. He pats it once, twice, and removes it completely, instantly feeling cold at the loss of Osamu’s touch.

No _see you later_ , no _call me tonight_ , no _I love you, too._

Just the sound of Osamu walking away. Just the sound of Suna’s heart breaking.

Just the sound of Suna going back home.

**Author's Note:**

> also im on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wendysheep)


End file.
